


The World's a Beast of a Burden

by awritersdaydream



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Late Night Conversations, Scar, some depictions of violence but not too detailed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awritersdaydream/pseuds/awritersdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a sleepless night, Sansa learns of Petyr's scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's a Beast of a Burden

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request I got on Tumblr and I decided to post it here. Enjoy!

She finds him in the library.

Scattered thoughts plague her mind, making her unable to sleep. She tosses and turns until finally deciding that a glass of water may help soothe the racing notions. She forgets the water though, once she sees him through a crack in the door. She watches as his nimble fingers glide across the page, most likely writing down schemes, lying about reputations, arranging new matches. Sometimes she wonders how this man, this exceedingly powerful man, managed to create himself.

She thinks of the differences between Littlefinger and Lord Baelish. Littlefinger, the cunning and clever schemer, always climbing the ladder to power. Littlefinger has no problem throwing people out the moon door, or poisoning kings at weddings. Littlefinger thrives on chaos, welcomes the dark shadows lurking behind innocent people.

Lord Baelish— _Petyr_ is different.

Petyr is the man who loved her mother, the man who swept her from King’s Landing and kissed her in the snow. Petyr has vulnerabilities, weaknesses that he tries hard to push down. Petyr is her friend; Petyr is who she can trust.

Though it is hard to tell when he is Littlefinger and when he is Petyr, she finds herself gravitating to both sides. There is a part of her, a very dark and unrighteous part, that likes Littlefinger. She likes the way he carries out his plans with such ruthlessness, with such insensitivity. Sometimes she envies that part of him, only for his ability to shut off feelings, his talent to forget his past and look to the future. If she is honest, there is something about him that draws her in, something that makes her feel both warm and uncertain.

She saves those thoughts for another sleepless night.

Her arm accidentally shifts against the door, creating a small creak. It is loud enough for a mouse, though Sansa knows Lord Baelish did not achieve success without attention to small features.

 _Details, Sansa_ , she remembers him say, _details can bring a kingdom to its knees._

She does not hear any movement, and believes he may not address her.

“Come in, Sansa.”

Her breath catches, and it takes her a few moments to gather herself before walking into the room.

“Close the door,” he commands, “You never know who might be wandering the halls at night.”

The slight, or jest against her ( _she is too flustered to tell_ ) fills her stomach with anticipation. She walks slowly to him, her soft slippers gliding carefully against the floor. She pauses in front of his desk and looks down to see stacks and stacks of folded letters, some already sealed. A fire blazes, providing her with a warmth she already feels.

She takes note of his dress—a long, gold, silk robe neatly tied at the waist—and cannot help but stare at the small tufts of hair peeking out from the top. It is the first time she has seen him without his usual buttoned green attire, a mockingbird pin fastened safely at his throat.

“Is everything all right?” He asks.

“I had a bad dream,” she lies. It is easier to let him that believe monsters are visiting her at night than rushing thoughts preventing her from sleep.

“Bad dreams are reflections of our fears, sweetling,” he tells her, “Nothing more.”

She nods, unsure of what to say. She is never quite sure of what to say, not when his piercing grey-green eyes are fixated on her.

“I understand bad dreams very well,” he confesses, “and I have come to learn that their power fades in time.”

She runs her fingers lightly against his desk, her gaze on the stack of letters in front of him. She can feel his eyes watching her, concentrating on her movements.

“Where are all of these letters going?” She asks.

He sits back in his chair. “Oh all kinds of places. Across seas, mountains and fields. Would you like to seal one of them?”

A rush of excitement fills her, a child-like nostalgic feeling that she believed was long forgotten.

“I do not want to ruin it,” she admits. Somehow, the thought of signing an official letter holds some weight, and the last thing she wants to do is make a mistake.

“I will show you.” He motions for her to come around his desk.

She walks over to him and leans against the desk for a better look at the letter. Suddenly, she feels his hands on her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. She lets out a startled gasp, but does not try to move away.

“There,” he says, “Now you can see everything more clearly.”

Sansa cannot help but agree. The seals are splayed out before her, different shapes and colors lining his desk. She sees the seal of the Vale, King’s Landing, the Wall, and even Winterfell.

“Why do you have seals from all over Westeros?” She asks.

He smirks. “Do you remember what I told you that day on the ship?”

She thinks of the arrow lodged in Ser Dontos’ chest, the feel of Lord Baelish’s arms around her, pulling her up from the ladder, the rocking of the ship.

She looks up at him. “Always keep your foes confused.”

“Good girl.”

Her gaze falls from his eyes to his lips, his chin and then finally his chest. The small hairs are much different from her first look. They are not in a group but scattered, broken up and divided by a small line. She remembers the stories she heard in King’s Landing, of Lord Baelish’s brush with death on the field, of his painful public humiliation. She never heard the full story, only rumors of a great scar down the center of his chest.

She turns around in his lap, her legs crossing over and straddling his thighs. Small fingers hesitantly reach out to touch his chest. He captures her wrist.

“Sansa,” he says, his breaths coming out in ragged breaks.

“I have heard stories,” she admits, looking him in the eyes. They are anxious and dilated.

  _This is Petyr_ , she thinks.

She doesn’t bother with the rest, as she is sure he knows the course of gossip in the capital. She reaches out again, his hand still curled around her wrist.

“Don’t,” he pleads, his mouth twisted in a grimace, his eyes half-closed in anguish.

Instinctively, she extends her free hand and touches his chin lightly, enough to direct his gaze to hers. She tries to convey her care, her lack of disgust for this terrible wound. If anything, she believes it makes him more human, it makes him _strong_.

 _It’s beautiful_ , she thinks.

Her fingers trail down his chin and neck, traveling back to the scar. He swallows hard and releases her, letting his hands fall to the tops of her thighs. She wets her lips as she runs her fingertips over the jagged line. She hears his intake of breath, feels part of him trembling underneath her touch.

She wants to follow the line as far as it goes, but his robe prevents her from fulfilling the task. Her hands travel _down, down, down_ until she reaches the knot at his waist. Without looking at him, she begins to gently untie the bunch.

She thinks she hears his breath quicken until she realizes the sound is her own. She cannot remember a time she felt more curious or captivated. She pulls the straps apart and then opens the silk garment. Her eyes widen as she sees the damage done to his lean body. The scar, with its pink and red hues, tears through his chest, creating a rugged and uneven path. She follows the wound all the way down to his navel, the cut so deep she can only imagine the immense pain felt at first contact. The skin is taught and distorted in places, suggesting a long and excruciating recovery.

Sansa imagines the duel in her mind. She hears the clash of steel, the cry of defeat, the joining of sword and flesh. She imagines a boy, not much older than her, slashed and bleeding on the field. She tears her gaze from the painful reminder, from the burden of the past.

She thinks of how her emotional scars match his own. Humiliation, defeat, loss.

 _Details, Sansa_ , her mind echoes.

She curls into him, wrapping her arms around his center, her head resting underneath his chin.

He strokes her long hair and swallows, “It was long ago.”

She does not need to answer. They both know that scars never truly fade, whether they are engraved on the skin or burned in the heart. Sansa closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of mint, follows the rise and fall of his chest.

She will never forget.

 She clings to him, tears springing to her disillusioned eyes while her mind wills the dark, violent images away.

Perhaps she does need shelter from bad dreams after all.


End file.
